


you make it so clear you don’t want me

by anoddconstellationofthoughts



Series: until it sticks [1]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Homophobic Language, M/M, Pain, Period-Typical Homophobia, Self-Harm, Skinny Steve, Very Very Mild, You've been warned, angie's in it because i wanted her to be alright i like her, at least i think so i tried, be nice to meeee, conceal don't feel don't let it show, i'll add more tags as i write, i've never seen agent carter tho so i'm going off of what i've read in other fics, is pretty much the theme of this fic, miscommunication to the MAX, no happy ending in sight, so y'all have fun w that, ugh i'm rambling in the tags again smh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-07 23:50:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15918744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anoddconstellationofthoughts/pseuds/anoddconstellationofthoughts
Summary: “Jeez, Stevie, what's got you all up in knots?”Steve pulls his gaze away from the corner of their shitty apartment he's been staring at and tries to smile. “Hm? Oh, nothing, just tired.”Bucky nods. “Me too.” He stands up abruptly and takes his coat from the hook. “Well, I’m heading out. You'll be good for the night?”“...Yeah.” Steve starts chewing on his nails again. “Where’re you going?”“Oh, y’know,” Bucky shrugs and smiles without any warmth, “out.”He closes the door behind him before Steve can say anything else.steve and bucky throughout the years. spoiler alert: the years are not good.





	you make it so clear you don’t want me

**Author's Note:**

> as requested by a_static_world: [not in that way](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k5deIN8AMbI) by sam smith + pain.  
> soooo yeah.  
> special thanks to [justashotofdepresso](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justashotofdepresso) for proofing and holding my hand through all of this and to [a_static_world](https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_static_world) for doing all the braining. you two are the best.  
> let the angst commence!

Steve knows Bucky. Very well in fact. They've been best friends since second grade, neighbors and then roommates for even longer, and have been to hell and back together. They've done everything together, and Steve knows Bucky almost better than he knows himself.

But this… this is not Bucky.

Don't get him wrong, it's the same body, not an imposter pretending to be Bucky, but something about him is off.

Steve can’t figure out what it is, and it’s driving him crazy, to the point of biting his nails enough for Bucky to notice.

“Jeez, Stevie, what's got you all up in knots?”

Steve pulls his gaze away from the corner of their shitty apartment he's been staring at and tries to smile. “Hmm? Oh, nothing, just tired.”

Bucky nods. “Yeah, me too.” He stands up abruptly and takes his coat from the hook. “Well, I’m heading out. You'll be good for the night?”

_He should've asked more. He normally notices when I lie. Why hasn't he?_

“...Yeah.” Steve starts chewing on his nails again. “Where’re you going?”

“Oh, y’know,” Bucky shrugs and smiles without any warmth, “out.”

He closes the door behind him before Steve can say anything else.

 _Out_. Bucky's been going out a lot recently. And every time he comes back reeking of alcohol and cigarette smoke and something else Steve's weak nose can't quite place. He's been distant and more blunt, hasn't bothered to pull his punches whenever he and Steve fight. He never lays a real, physical hand on Steve, mind you, but enough of his words land like blows for Steve to be fed up with it.

And Bucky always apologizes, that part of him hasn’t changed, but it feels different somehow. Like he means it with all of his heart and none of it at the same time. It feels real, but it doesn’t. Maybe Steve just wants it to feel real bad enough that he’s tricked himself into believing it.

He doesn’t know how to feel about that.

But Bucky must have gone out nearly 10 times in the past month alone, and it’s been nothing like the way it was when he would take girls out for the night. He doesn’t spend a second trying to clean up or even glance in the mirror as he rushes out the door. He never comes back with a gal on his arm, buzzed, but still aware enough to try and be quiet to spare Steve from having to listen to them. No, when Bucky comes home now, he’s drunker than he’s ever been, barely able to stand, much less form a coherent sentence, and the few times Steve’s been able to get a response out of him, Bucky’s cussed him out and collapsed on the couch in a matter of minutes.

When he wakes up, he doesn’t remember anything. That’s new.

A sharp burst of pain in one of Steve’s fingers jerks him out of his thoughts. He pulls the hand away from his mouth, the metallic taste of blood coating his tongue. Grimacing, he goes to grab a bandage from the bathroom. If he keeps this up, his fingers are going to be gone by the end of next year. If _Bucky_ keeps this up…

Bucky.

Steve stares at himself in the dirty mirror before clenching his fists and his jaw, ignoring the stinging objection from his bleeding finger. He doesn’t know what’s going on with his best friend, but he’s going to find out.

And, of course, the only reasonable course of action is to follow him.

 

Steve decides it’s too late to follow Bucky now, he’d never catch up, so he waits until the next time the other man goes out. He doesn’t have to wait long; it’s less than a week before Bucky goes out again, seemingly on a whim. He leaves with barely a goodbye, and Steve forces himself to wait a couple minutes before running after him.

It’s dark and cold and foggy, but Steve just wraps himself tighter in his coat and curls his fist over the inhaler in his pocket. He can just barely see another man in front of him, but he’d recognize those broad shoulders and relaxed walk from a mile away, so it doesn’t matter. There are a few people out on the streets, but the numbers grow less and less and Bucky leads Steve to the edge of Brooklyn. An old brick building with cracked walls and a flickering red sign greets them, and Bucky slips in the door past a few people loitering outside the doors. Music escapes through the open door, and Steve glances up at the sign.

 _Neon Lights_. Wait. Steve knows this place. He’s heard of it.

It’s a fairy bar.

Steve tries to even out his breathing; the long walk and the fact that he just saw _Bucky Barnes_  enter fairy bar have made it difficult to breathe steadily and normally, but he can’t pull out the inhaler right now. It would draw attention to him, and he can’t afford that.

_No one can see you here. No one can notice you here. You can’t be caught. You can’t be caught._

_You can’t be caught._

But Bucky.

Steve grits his teeth and swallows his fear. He has to do this.

Taking one final deep breath, he walks up to the door and enters the bar.

Jazz music and cigarette smoke fill Steve’s ears and nose the second he enters the building. There are tables to the left and a bar to the right, and no one pays any mind to the short blond who just arrived. There’s a live band at the back, lead by a woman in a short black dress, and a bartender manning the bar, a wall of liquor behind her. It’s just like any other bar in New York. Smoky, crowded, and too loud.

But the singer in the back has shoulders too broad and arms too thick to be a woman’s, and the bartender grabs a waitress’s ass as she walks by, and two men at in a booth are sitting unnaturally close, occasionally leaning even closer together to kiss or run a hand through the other’s hair. Steve feels something bubble up from within him and tears his gaze away from them. He takes a seat at the bar, close to the door in case he should need to escape.

“Welcome to Neon,” the bartender appears in front of him in an instant, hands on the counter in front of him. “What can I get you?”

“I, um,” Steve swallows, staring at her hands. He’s never been the best with women, even in positions like this. “I’ll have a Coke.”

She raises a dark eyebrow, and pulls a bottle, a napkin, and a bottle opener out from underneath the counter without breaking eye contact. “Ice or a cup?”

“No, thank you.” He holds in a cough.

He pulls a coin out of his pocket and she takes it, leaving to help another patron. Steve sits on the stool, and timidly reaches for the bottle. It’s cold, but pleasantly so, as the crush of people in the bar has raised the temperature quite a bit. He opens it, and takes a small sip before setting it back down on the napkin.

A little voice in his head whispers, _Bucky._

Right. Bucky.

Steve shoots a quick look down the bar and instantly spots him. Facing his back to Steve, he talks to a large, older man whose hand looks like it’s on his waist, and Steve fights down the bile that rises in his throat. He hurriedly turns back to his drink, hunching over it in hopes that Bucky won’t recognize him if he happens to look in Steve’s direction. The blur of emotions whirling through his head right now are giving him a headache. Or maybe that’s the noise and the smoke.

The bartender comes back, a rag in hand, and stops in front of Steve.

“You okay there? You look sick.”

Steve raises his eyes to look at her. “I’m fine.”

“Hmm.” She doesn’t seem to believe him, but she doesn’t press further. “So, you from around here? I’ve never seen you in here before.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m new.” It’s much less convincing than he hoped it would be. She wipes the bar around his drink and he lifts it to help her, suppressing another cough.

“Where you from?”

 _Shit._ “Uh, Chicago.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” Steve steals another glance down the bar at Bucky. He’s still with the other man, a near empty glass in his hand. He’s starting to droop slightly.

The bartender follows his gaze. “Someone catch your eye down there?”

Steve chokes on his sip of Coke. “What?”

She doesn’t repeat herself, only smirks and waits.

He wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his coat. “No, just,” he clears his throat, “thought I saw someone I knew.”

Her smile says she doesn’t believe him, but her mouth says, “So what’s your name, Chicago Boy?”

He grins faintly. “Steve.”

She holds out a hand towards him. “Angie.”

He shakes it, surprised by the oddly placed calluses and scars he can feel there. “Do you usually ask people this many questions?”

She laughs, and it’s low and just the slightest bit raspy, and Steve feels himself relax. “I try to keep tabs on all of the interesting characters who enter the bar. In a world like this, you have to.”

Steve nods, tensing back up again. He doesn't want her to remember him, but he figures that anyone who works in a place like this keeps their mouth shut. He's not in danger of anyone knowing he was there. No one here knows him. Except Bucky.

And Bucky doesn't know he's here.

Steve tries to angle himself so that he can inconspicuously glace at Bucky out of the corner of his eye, so as not to draw attention to either of them. Except Bucky’s not there.

And neither is the man who was with him.

_Shit shit shit._

Steve hops off his stool and wraps his arms around himself. Angie gives him a curious look.

“I, ah, sorry, I gotta go.”

“Come back sometime, will you?” Her curiosity has an edge of concern to it.

Steve spins around and calls over his shoulder, “Sure!” before forcing his way out the door. It’s an empty promise, but he makes it all the same.

He ignores the way all his blood has rushed to his face. While the air outside is certainly cleaner than in the bar, he still has to smother another cough after taking too deep of a breath. His eyes water from the cold, but through the tears he manages to catch a glimpse of the other man leading Bucky into a narrow alley. Steve tries to creep up behind them.

The wind has begun to howl through the street, so that combined with his bad ear means Steve doesn't realize what's going on before he peeks into the alley and sees Bucky on his knees before the older man, whose hand is fisted in Bucky's hair and pants are pushed down around his ankles.

_Oh, God._

Through the wind, Steve can hear the older man echo the sentiment.

Steve throws himself back, unable to watch Bucky… service the man any longer. Pressed against the wall just outside the alley, he feels all the air being sucked out of his lungs, trying to will himself into non-existence, wondering if maybe he imagined it, maybe he's got a fever from being outside so long, if maybe maybe maybe–

As the winds die down, the sounds coming from the alley erase any hope of that.

After pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes in an attempt to calm his nausea, Steve spins on his heel and heads home. Once he's a block away, he finally allows himself to use the inhaler. It stops his coughs but does nothing to restore the air to his lungs as he leaves Bucky and the man in the alley behind him.

 

Bucky goes out four more times before Steve builds up the courage to bring up what he saw in the alley.

Now, Steve’s never been one for anxiety; his reputation as impulsive and reckless is well established in its own right. But he’s losing his Goddamned _mind_ sitting on his ass and not doing or saying anything whenever Bucky heads out or starts acting extra fidgety (Bucky Barnes never fidgets, what the hell is up with that). If it was anyone else, Steve is certain he would have ambushed them and pulled every single question he could out of them with his big blue eyes and maybe his fists. If it was anyone else, he probably would’ve failed. But its Bucky, so Steve sits, chewing his nails down to the quick and biting his tongue, drawing blood from both.

If Bucky’s noticed Steve acting weird, he hasn’t commented on it. Maybe they’re both afraid. Maybe they can both feel the tension building and building, pushing them farther apart than ever before, all because of some fucker in an alley on the edge of Brooklyn.

Steve wants to punch something.

Someone.

But he can't bring himself to take that final leap, to corner Bucky and ask him what exactly goes through his mind every time he leaves for that fairy bar to find himself someone new because Bucky Barnes never stays with one person for very long. Steve has heard stories of what men can get up to when no one is looking, and can't help fixating on it, noticing every time Bucky forgets to cover the marks on his body or seems uncomfortable when he sits or walks. By the third time he goes out, he seems to have stopped trying to hide those things. Steve really wishes he hadn't.

The fourth time Bucky goes out, Steve forces himself to make a plan. There's no way Bucky doesn't know what he does when drunk, Steve decides, so confronting him the morning after, when he's recovered from the hangover just enough to have a conversation, is the optimal plan.

Bucky goes out with a quick goodbye. Steve is careful not to look up from his sketchbook. He rehearses what he's going to say in his head all night, deciding to sleep before Bucky comes home–there's no point in waiting for him anymore.

Steve's alarm goes off at 8am. He can hear Bucky groaning on the couch in response. For some reason, the knowledge that the sound is even more irritating to Bucky's hungover ears than to Steve's mostly well-rested albeit partially deaf ones is very satisfying. The anger of being lied to seems to have built up.

Now that he thinks about it, Steve isn't entirely sure why the thought of Bucky going to a fairy bar to meet strange men makes him so deeply upset. He's known and worked with his fair share of queers and has never had any issues with them. Sure, homosexuality is a sin, but God was always more of his ma’s thing than Steve’s. He goes to church and says his prayers when told to, but ever since his ma died and the world lost its main redeeming feature, religion itself lost its appeal. He’s not comfortable, per say, with queers, but he doesn’t hate them by any means. He’s just not used to them.

He’s never been super comfortable with any of Bucky’s women either, but for some reason, they’ve never bothered him much. None of them lasted long, and when he was with them, Bucky was always in control. He never slipped an inch. Maybe Steve’s just not used to seeing Bucky submissive like that.

Is he upset because Bucky didn’t tell him? This isn’t the first time he’s lied to him. Admittedly, it’s never been something this big, but they’ve both lied to each other on multiple occasions, usually just “I’m fine” and “I’ll tell you if anything happens, I promise” and “no, I’m not mad at you” but this… this is more. This is something that could put them both in danger, and Steve understands that maybe Bucky was trying to protect him, but he has a right to know these things. Best friends tell each other things. Maybe not everything, but important things. Maybe Steve feels betrayed.

But that doesn't completely explain why the memory of Bucky in that alley with the other man brings so much bile to his throat and makes him want to scratch that man’s skin off. He wants to take Bucky in his arms and hold him, wants to take a washcloth and wash away the invisible grime and marks that man and every other like him has left on his friend.

He wants to fix Bucky, to make him feel better, like he doesn’t have to go get blackout drunk and fuck a stranger to feel better.

_You’ve got to talk to him first, knucklehead._

Yeah, yeah. Whatever.

Steve washes his face and brushes his teeth, getting dressed before pouring a glass of water, grabbing a couple aspirin, and punching Bucky on the shoulder to wake him up. The brunet startles but doesn’t pull his face off of the cushions. Steve punches him again.

Bucky mumbles something at him and rolls over on his side to face Steve. Steve only hands the water and aspirin to him, which Bucky gratefully accepts. He sits up and takes a sip gingerly, then swallows the pills dry.

Steve crosses his arms, trying to appear somewhat calm. He forces his knee to stop bouncing. “So how was your night?”

“Mmph. Great.” Bucky closes his eyes.

“Yeah? Where’d you go?”

Bucky opens his eyes a sliver. “A bar.”

“Which one?”

Bucky’s eyes narrow, and he seems to wake up. “Why?”

“I asked first.” Steve clenches his jaw.

“Just some bar, Steve,” Bucky says defensively.

_Oh ho. Two can play this game, James Barnes._

“Yeah?” Steve asks.

“Yeah.” Bucky answers.

They’re silent for a beat, and then:

“When were you going to tell me you’ve been going to a fairy bar?”

Everything drops from Bucky’s face. He looks like he’s just been slapped.

He whispers, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Steve whispers back, “The hell you don’t.”

Bucky’s resolve comes back, but the blood in his face doesn’t. His knuckles are clenched in white anger.

“When were you going to tell me, hm? Aren’t best friends supposed to tell each other things like this?” Steve lets the bitter edge of his words cut into Bucky like a knife. A small burst of satisfaction lites itself in his chest when Bucky flinches. “You’ve gone out nearly twice a week for the past month, and never once gave any hint as to where you were going. You came back drunk and angry, more recently, obviously in pain, and I’m just supposed to ignore that? That’s bullshit, Bucky.”

Bucky’s chest has started to rise and fall heavily with the weight of his breaths. “I don’t–”

“No, you know what? Shut up. I don’t want your shoddy explanation,” Steve snarls. “I just wanna know why the hell you didn’t tell me and what else you’ve been keeping from me.”

Bucky growls, and Steve feels himself wilt a little bit. He puffs his chest back up, using the fact that the brunet is sitting to loom over him. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”

Steve’s anger is pushed back by shock at the blatant rejection. “What?”

“I said,” Bucky stands up, now towering over Steve. “I don’t have to tell you anything. This is my own business, and I’ll deal with it as I see fit.”

“ _What_?” Steve repeats.

“You heard me.”

Steve sits down on the coffee table. Hard.

“You think I haven’t noticed you muttering to yourself and biting your nails until they bleed? You think I haven’t seen you cross out page after page in your sketchbook, sometimes ripping them out entirely? You think I haven’t noticed the way your teary eyes sometimes look like more than the result of a cold?” He stays on his feet, and the dominance of the position drains Steve of all his fight.

“You didn’t say anything.”

“Yeah,” Bucky spits, “because I thought that if I let you deal with it alone without snooping or hovering over you, you’d return the favor. I guess I was wrong.”

Steve nods, eyes unfocused and pointed at something past Bucky. “Yeah. Yeah, you were.”

They stay there like that for a while, Steve on the coffee table, unable to form a coherent thought, and Bucky standing over him. Finally, Bucky speaks.

“So, what, you followed me? To the bar?”

Steve swallows and nods. “Yeah. A couple weeks ago.”

Neither of them are looking at the other. “What did you see?”

Steve wants to tell Bucky he can fuck himself. Instead, he says, “You and another man at the bar. And then later in the alley. When you were…”

“Sucking his dick.” Bucky exhales sharply and runs a hand through his hair. Steve flinches away from him, feeling acid in his throat again. “Right.”

The taller man finally sits down in on the couch in front of Steve, who avoids looking at him. Bucky notices.

“What.”

“I don’t…” Steve swallows. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you understand so much?” Anger creeps back into Bucky’s voice. “Because this entire conversation has gone over _so well_?” He shakes his head. “You don’t get it, Steve.”

The blond mirrors the action, feeling his brain slosh around with the movement. “No, I don’t.” He pauses, trying to ignore the burn in his chest and throat. “How can you do it?”

Bucky shrugs. “I enjoy it.”

“But…” Steve struggles for words. “They’re _men_.”

Bucky stares at him. “And?”

“They’re– it’s not– it’s not–”

“What, natural?” Bucky bares his teeth. “Don’t pretend like you don’t look at guys the same way I do, Stevie. I’ve seen you do it.”

Steve gapes as the world drops out from underneath him.

“I–”

“Jesus H. Christ, do you really not notice yourself doing it?” Bucky asks incredulously. In another world, his eyes might have a sliver of sympathy or understanding in them, but Steve’s not that stupid.

Besides, he doesn’t–oogle at men, he’s just got an… artistic eye. He’s an artist, he’s allowed to appreciate beauty, right? Right?

Bucky’s watching him with something of a bitter smirk on his face. And it makes Steve furious.

“I’m not–I’m not a queer!” Steve blurts, remembering to lower his voice at the last minute. The apartment walls are thin and this conversation isn’t one that should ever go beyond them. “I’m not like you!”

Fury and disgust seem to leak out of Bucky’s pores. That was evidently the wrong thing to say.

“Sure,” he growls. “Sure, you’re not. You’re just a normal, Christ-centered, law-abiding guy, who made friends with the wrong queer.” He leans in close to Steve’s face, still smelling faintly of alcohol and morning breath. “Except you’re not. And nothing you can do or say will change that.” He stands up abruptly and heads for the bathroom. “Oh, and by the way– you asked what else I’ve been hiding from you. I’ve been drafted to the 107th. I leave tomorrow night.”

Steve feels numb. Numb and broken and so utterly _stupid_ –

Bucky sticks his head out of the bathroom door. “I’m staying at my mother’s tonight.”

Steve whispers, “Okay.”

He doesn’t blame Bucky for not wanting to spend his last night with him. After everything that happened, Steve thinks he would want the same.

 _No, you wouldn't_ , he hears himself think. _You’d still want to be with him after everything._

Steve can’t bring himself to dissaggree.

 

That afternoon, Bucky packs all of his belongings into a tattered suitcase and leaves for his mothers with a halfhearted goodbye and a look Steve can’t decipher.

Steve decides to go to the Stark Expo just for something to do.

Neither of them see each other for a long time after that.


End file.
